


The Highest Aim

by Sheridan_Hope



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: American Revolution, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Aquinas, Internalized Homophobia, John Laurens Overthinks Everything, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Revolutionary War, Romance, sorta angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 12:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14593005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheridan_Hope/pseuds/Sheridan_Hope
Summary: "Lauren’s heart sank. Hamilton was right -- in a way -- and they both knew it. But there was much more going on. And there was no chance he would change his tactics now. Change his opinions. His feelings.His mistakes.The blonde crumpled against Hamilton’s hand.'I genuinely care what you think, Alexander,' Laurens sighed, dropping his musket, 'but … "If the highest aim of a captain were to preserve his ship--"’'“--He would keep it in port forever,”' Hamilton finished, exasperated. 'Aquinas. Yes. I know. But--' He seized the taller man by his lapels and tugged, bringing them eye to eye.'If we’re continuing with this metaphor, then you, my friend, are the captain who would sooner hurl himself overboard!'"Historical Lams. I can't descriptions, so just trust me when I say it's good.(you can also find this on my tumblr, @ourfavoriterevolutionarygays)





	The Highest Aim

John Laurens’s fingers trembled as he scrabbled through his gear, frantically pouring a load of black powder down the barrel of his musket. A resounding crack echoed through the ravine, signaling the discharge of another musket. Friendly or enemy, he couldn’t tell. The plume of acrid smoke billowing over his head lead him to believe the shot was friendly.

Above the clamor, however, was the distinct sound of Alexander Hamilton shooting his mouth off.

Angrily.

At Laurens.

Hamilton made a grab at Laurens’s forearm, but Laurens shook off the attempt as he jammed a bullet down the barrel.

All around them, the deafening explosions of gunfire, the pounding of horses’ hooves, and the cries of terrified soldiers tore through the air as if it were nothing but paper.

But Laurens only had ears for one.

“John, why do you insist on throwing yourself into actions that will more than likely get you shot? Or killed?”

He was grasping at every bit of Laurens he could; shoulders, arms, coat. Hell, Hamilton even yanked on Laurens’s ponytail as he made his way toward the churned and bloodstained earth of the battlefield.

Laurens deftly ignored his friend -- years of experience made it easy -- and trudged onward, shouldering Hamilton out of the way.

Seemingly undaunted by Laurens’s unwillingness to answer his previous question, Hamilton pressed on, stepping in front of Laurens to block his path.

His auburn hair was loose from its ribbon, violet eyes icy, freckles contrasting heavily with the angry flush blooming along his face and neck.

It was enough to give Laurens pause as he slung his powder horn over his shoulder.

“John?” Hamilton said, somehow managing to look both genuinely concerned and murderously inclined as he approached the man ready to leap into the fray.

Realizing Hamilton was not about to give this up, Laurens sighed heavily, letting his gun fall to his side as he pulled his friend into a gully to talk some sense into him.

Hamilton couldn’t keep him safe forever. He needed to realize that Laurens wouldn’t just sit idly by while good men died for good causes. He wouldn’t save his own neck just to please one person.

Especially when something this monumental was at stake.

The two of them were crouched, ducking their heads low. It was by no means a position either wanted to maintain, but sheer necessity demanded it. Hamilton shifted uncomfortably as he lay prone in the shallow trench, turning himself to better converse with his friend. His face, while no less red then it had been, had lost some of its wrath, and only reflected a deep sorrow, something Laurens recognized, but couldn’t seem to place.

“John, must you hurl yourself into such dangers?” Hamilton asked over the sounds of battle, awkwardly altering his position in order to face Laurens without exposing his head to musket fire.

Laurens opened his mouth to reply, but something stopped him.

Hamilton’s glare had turned steely, and Laurens resisted the urge to shrink away. He stared at Hamilton resolutely, response on the tip of his tongue when Hamilton held up a finger, effectively silencing Laurens before he even spoke.

He knew Hamilton was on the edge of an explosive tirade, and there was nothing he could do except ride it out.

“Alex …” Laurens breathed. But that was all he managed to say before Hamilton’s rant burst forth from his mouth like a dam breaking under the immense weight of a waterfall.

“Why do you insist on risking your neck just to prove a point!?”

“I’m not trying to--” Laurens protested.

“Fine. If not to me, then to the world. You constantly try to prove yourself--”

“Not like you don’t--”

“I have a reason!” Hamilton shrieked. “I have a reason for all of the stupid-ass things I do!”

“What?” Laurens snapped. “What reason could you  _ possibly  _ have?”

“I had to pull myself up from the bottom. I had to claw my way to power,  _ recognition _ even. To the top. I was born a bastard. My father abandoned me, my mother died. I lived in hell.”

“But what does that have to do with--”

“It has  _ everything _ to do with it!” Hamilton snarled. “No matter what I do, people will question my actions simply because of a past I cannot free myself from. Something I cannot control.”

Laurens felt a twinge in his chest as he was reminded of himself. His eyes flicked downwards. “Oh,” he whispered, ashamed.

Hamilton’s stern face glowered down at him. “You were born into a family with honor and status. You have proven yourself enough. You only focus on your shortcomings, most of which are imagined. The phantoms that plague you do not exist.”

He paused, biting back tears.

“And they drive you away from me,” Hamilton said softly, relinquishing Laurens’s hand -- which Laurens hadn’t even noticed he’d taken -- and letting his own fall limply to the dirt.

Laurens wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that. His heart leaped into his throat. His hands were jittery as he maneuvered his musket to aim at the approaching British troops.

Might as well make their conversation productive.

The ensuing shot from Laurens’s musket accomplished four things.

First and foremost, the lead slug buried itself in the abdomen of a redcoat. He fell to his knees  as a dark flower bloomed over his uniform. He was silent.

Second, the kickback knocked the breath from Laurens’s lungs as the butt of his gun slammed into his shoulder. He blinked away stars.

As a result, Hamilton turned to Laurens, incredulous look on his face. He seemed offended, almost as if Laurens’s lack of attention was simply inconceivable.

And, worst of all, it gave away their secluded position.

Multiple heads swivelled in their direction.

“Oh shit,” Laurens and Hamilton swore simultaneously, ducking as a volley of musket balls narrowly cleared their heads. 

Without really thinking about what he was doing, Laurens clutched the bunched fabric of Hamilton’s cravat and hauled him to his feet. He didn’t release his hand until he found them cover behind a rather conveniently located tree.

There was but a breath of tranquility.

The bark next to Hamilton’s ear exploded in a spray of shrapnel, and he instinctively huddled closer to Laurens.

Said man couldn’t find a reason to complain.

“Alex,” he said, hastily reloading his musket as swiftly as he could manage, “I understand where your concern stems from. I really do. However--”

Another boom. Another shower of bark. Another instinctive and not unpleasant huddle.

“--you cannot protect me forever.”

Hamilton glared at Laurens. Laurens averted his eyes; he kept reloading, the methodical and practiced action of ramming the load down the barrel calming his nerves.

It did nothing to stop the glare, but …

“I know, but I can try.”

“No, you can’t!” Laurens exclaimed, whirling to face his friend, briefly ignoring the battle raging around them. “You have to realize that I won’t keep myself out of the line of fire just because you asked me to. Just because--”

“It’s not that I expect you to stay out of it completely!” Hamilton insisted, placing a hand on Laurens’s chest to keep him from joining the skirmish prematurely. “I just expect you to be smart about it! Not …” He gestured helplessly. “This.”

Lauren’s heart sank. Hamilton was right -- in a way -- and they both knew it. But there was much more going on. And there was no chance he would change his tactics now. Change his opinions. His feelings.

His mistakes.

The blonde crumpled against Hamilton’s hand.

“I genuinely care what you think, Alexander,” Laurens sighed, dropping his musket, “but … ‘If the highest aim of a captain were to preserve his ship--’”

“‘--He would keep it in port forever,’” Hamilton finished, exasperated. “Aquinas. Yes. I know. But--” He seized the taller man by his lapels and tugged, bringing them eye to eye.

“If we’re continuing with this metaphor, then you, my friend, are the captain who would sooner hurl himself overboard!”

“I am not!” Laurens objected petulantly, resisting the childish urge to huff and cross his arms over his chest.

“Yes, you really are!” Hamilton insisted, voice rising. “You have an unhealthy obsession with danger, and I really wish you’d think more about yourself before you take such rash actions.”

“I  _ do _ think about myself -- that’s why I do these things!”

“Then think about me!” Hamilton shouted, fuming. “Think about how you doing these things makes me feel!”

“I  _ do _ !” Laurens roared. “Now, if that’s all, I’ll just be going.” He attempted to step out from behind their temporary cover, but a sudden pain radiated from the back of his head. A sharp jerk on his ponytail brought him face to face with Hamilton in all his auburn-haired fury.

“John!”

“Yes!?”

Hamilton looked away, choosing instead to focus on some unknown point on the ground.

“John …” His voice was hardly more than a murmur, a susurration on the breeze.

Hamilton, for all his bluster and reputation as a man who never stopped talking, seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Alexander?” Laurens asked, gently tipping up his friend’s chin with a powder-burned hand. When he met Hamilton’s gaze, he saw that those azure eyes he so loved were shining with unshed tears.

“Jacky …” Hamilton whispered hoarsely, the sound barely audible over the din of combat behind them.

Laurens gawked at the redhead. All of the life he usually possessed seemed to have left him. He sagged against the tree, not from any wound, but more from a sense of despondency. And there were very few instances Hamilton would refer to his friend in a more intimate manner, and now did not seem like the appropriate time or place.

“Hamilton … Alexander … I did not realize it affected you so,” Laurens murmured, suddenly wanting to bring his friend close.

“Oh, Jacky,” Hamilton said, feeble chuckle escaping his cold-chapped lips. “There are so many things about you that affect me in so many ways.”

Laurens continued to stare, open-mouthed.

Hamilton only quirked an eyebrow mysteriously.

For a moment, there was quiet, discounting the screams and thunderclaps ringing through the valley. There was a strand of coppery hair that had slipped out of its bindings, and Laurens itched to tuck it behind Hamilton’s ear.

He did not.

“Alex?” Laurens asked. His mind refused to come up with anything else.

Hamilton smiled weakly.

“Even with my gifts with the written word and the spoken language, I find myself speechless when it concerns you.”

Laurens’s jaw dropped.

“You … what?”

Hamilton laughed faintly. “Laurens … Jacky …” He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Laurens, drawing him into a warm embrace. His breath was hot against Laurens’s neck, and his words caused all of the world to fade away.

“Jacky…  _ I love you _ .” Hamilton’s voice was so soft, so delicate, and yet Laurens heard it as loud and clear as a gunshot. And the words continued to ring out, reverberating inside his skull as he processed what was said.

_ I love you. I love you. _

Salty tears pricked the backs of his eyes as he gathered his friend closer, clutching the fabric of his coat, burying his face in Hamilton’s fiery ringlets.

“Alexander …” Laurens breathed, throat closing up. “I had no idea.”

“That is perfectly alright, I would not have expected you to know,” Hamilton said, sounding similarly emotional. “But now you do.”

“And now I understand,” Laurens said, running his hand over Hamilton’s back, the wool of his coat scratching against the taller man’s calloused and ink stained fingers. “And I should have you know the feeling is mutual.”

Hamilton laughed wetly, shuddering against Laurens’s frame.

“If it were not for the sea of men and soldiers around us, I would have you right here, right now. I might even anyway.”

“As ever, our sentiments are aligned, believe me,” Laurens said, finally breaking away from Hamilton. The moment their contact was severed, he found himself yearning for the warmth of Hamilton’s form pressed against his own, but he knew they had already cradled each other for far longer than decorum allowed.

Hamilton was smiling. His hair had completely escaped from its queue, his face was red and streaked with tears, and his crisp uniform was caked in mud from their brief but forced sojourn to the ground.

But he was smiling.

And that was all that mattered.

Now that he had no reason to stop himself, Laurens found himself entranced by the blush along Hamilton’s jawline, the splash of freckles across his nose that reminded him of the constellations above. The same freckles that complemented his celestial eyes so perfectly.

Hamilton --  _ Alexander  _ \-- gripped Laurens’s arms tightly, seemingly fighting the impulse to pull Laurens to him again.

Laurens found it impossible not to giggle.

Alexander joined in not long after, although it seemed like he had little idea why.

“J-Jacky?” Alexander finally managed to force out between gasps.

“Alex … this is  _ ridiculous _ ,” Laurens said, cackling and shaking from the post-conflict adrenaline. “We -- We are in the middle of a  _ war _ . This is improbable at best, not to mention  _ illegal _ , and we are--” Laurens poked his head out from behind their tree. All he was met with was quiet and corpses. “--well,  _ were _ fighting a major battle … How … how did this happen?”

Alexander surveyed the deserted battlefield. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t know.”

Laurens smiled. “But I don’t suppose I really care one way or another.”

Alexander laughed. “I do believe this is one stone we can leave unturned. Overthinking will only cause problems, perhaps even driving us into an unproductive stupor, and I’d hate to have the General send us packing.”

“Yeah …” Laurens sighed, looking at Alexander fondly. “And plus, isn’t overthinking things your job?”

“Says the man who-- Hey!” This last remark was directed at Laurens, who had seized the opportunity to ruffle Alexander’s hair. “I worked hard on that this morning!”

“Well, it was almost gone anyway. And now look at it!” Laurens exclaimed, sniggering at the mess of curls that had taken leave from their neat updo and had chosen to instead fall around Alexander’s shoulders.

“Hmph,” Alexander grumbled, attempting to wrangle his hair back into a semi-presentable shape. Laurens snorted at his efforts. Watching him flail blindly as he tried to replace his ribbon was really quite a sight. By the time Alexander gave up, Laurens was bent double, sore from all of his laughing.

“Well, if it’s so humorous, why don’t you do it?” Alexander snapped.

“Gladly,” Laurens said, smirking. He wrenched the ribbon -- a simple piece of blue silk, which, on closer inspection, turned out to be one that belonged to Laurens -- out of Alexander’s hand and took up position behind his friend. 

From Laurens’s new angle, Alexander’s hair looked even more of a fright than it had a few seconds prior. Laurens found himself wondering how he even tamed it on a good day.

When his fingers first made contact with Alexander’s scalp, Laurens felt the younger man stiffen as if a steel rod had been jammed down his spine.

Laurens grinned deviously.

He made the next few minutes as long and drawn out as he could, purposely tangling his hands in Alexander’s hair more times than absolutely necessary, and even running a finger down his back just to see his reaction.

It was only when Alexander slapped his hand that he gave up the act and attacked the hair with a real purpose.

Despite Laurens’s initial inclinations, he made relatively short work of the follicle-related chaos, and Alexander soon found himself sporting a sleek queue.

A moment of peaceful silence descended between the pair as they exchanged loving glances, although Alexander’s looked more peeved than loving.

“You’re welcome,” Laurens said sardonically, at last breaking the stillness.

Hamilton rolled his eyes, and a second later, the two of them were overtaken with hysterics.

A voice interrupted them.

“Laurens? Hamilton?  _ Mon petit lion _ , is that you?”

A tall, somewhat dishevelled-looking man stepped out from behind a nearby tangle of brambles.

“Ah, Lafayette! ‘Tis a pleasure to see you alive and well,” Alexander said smoothly, stepping away from a still-euphoric Laurens. “We were beginning to worry.”

“From where I am, it certainly does not seem that way,” the Frenchman quipped, crossing his arms and pouting in mock offense.

“Lafayette,  _ mon ami _ , we meant no harm. You know this, surely,” Laurens placated, going along with his friend’s charade.

Said man snorted, giving up on the pretense.

“You two are insufferable,” he muttered affectionately, running a hand through Laurens’s queue. From the corner of his eye, Laurens saw Alexander trying -- and more importantly,  _ failing _ \-- to disguise the smug sneer that graced his freckled features.

Laurens stuck out his tongue in much the same way a small child would if slighted, and Lafayette chuckled, wrapping a companionable arm around Alexander’s shoulder.

“I hate to interrupt this …  _ je ne sais quoi _ ,” the Frenchman said hesitantly, beaming at his fellow soldiers, “but I suppose we ought to return to camp. The others are bound to ask after our wellbeing,  _ unlike you ungrateful children _ .”

“Hey!” Laurens expostulated. “Just because we two are shorter than your commanding countenance does not give you the right to call us children!”

“But it  _ does _ give me the right to call you ungrateful,” Lafayette countered, pointing an accusatory finger.

“Fine, fine,” Laurens acquiesced. “But I’ll have you know this discourtesy will not be forgiven quite as easily as you would like.”

“Oh, I have no doubt in my mind about that,” Lafayette said with a theatrical wink.

They set off.

The woods were quiet as the trio picked its way along a hastily cleared -- although plainly much traveled -- path back to the camp stationed nearby. The disconcerting silence of the battlefield faded behind them, and the atmosphere was once again bestowed with a quiet ambiance of birds and the sound of a brook burbling in the background.

There was something calming, and the group, almost seeming to have thought as one mind, slowed to stop to simply take in the surroundings.

It was Lafayette who broke the reverie.

“ _ Très magnifique _ ,” he whispered, gazing around him in awe, which, under most circumstances would have been unwarranted, but after abandoning the haze of blood and death some distance back, all three were simply grateful to be alive.

“Yeah,” Alexander agreed from Laurens’s right. “Beautiful.” Laurens was not unaware of the  _ completely coincidental _ squeeze his friend gave his hand as he said it.

Laurens smiled. “It is almost as if I have never seen this forest before.”

Lafayette chuckled. “Perhaps you have not. At least, not without all filters stripped away.”

“Maybe …” Laurens trailed off, unable to think up a good response.

“There is something quite exhilarating, isn’t there? About seeing something so familiar completely bared before oneself?” Alexander mused.

Lafayette shot the redhead a look, the nature of which Laurens couldn’t, but wasn’t sure he wished to, decipher.

“Speaking of which,” the Frenchman interjected, disentangling himself from their threeway embrace, “what were you two up to before I arrived?”

“Nothing of import,” Alexander said simply, breezing forward along the footpath.

“Really?” Lafayette said skeptically, moving to catch up. “It didn’t seem like nothing to me.”

“It was nothing,” Alexander said, and Laurens could tell he was gritting his teeth, doing anything to not give his expression -- or any of his earlier activities -- away.

“Alright, you win,” Lafayette consented, throwing his hands in the air. “If you don’t wish to speak of personal matters to a close friend, that’s your call to make. Not that I won’t keep asking.”

Laurens scoffed, hurrying after his friends.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Alexander warned, expression completely serious.

“ _ Mon dieu _ ,” Lafayette mumbled to himself.

As they walked, the sounds of life became more pronounced, along with a steadily growing limp in Lafayette’s right leg. By the time the gates to headquarters were in sight, Laurens and Alexander were practically dragging their French friend to the infirmary.

Lafayette initially refused their help, claiming he was fine, but both Alexander and Laurens were intimately familiar with their own stubbornness, and, after some insistent nagging and a few forceful looks at the bloodstained knee of his breeches, he eventually consented and allowed the two uninjured men to escort him to the doctor.

The Frenchman was only barely conscious when they reached the medical tent. The scarlet stain on his knee had grown exponentially in surface area, and the doctor bustled around the tent, laying the nearly-completely comatose man out on one of the small beds.

Laurens and Alexander watched with bated breath as Lafayette’s boots were removed and the legs of his breeches cut away. Despite the rather large amount of blood covering the white fabric, the wound itself looked only to be surface level, much to the two spectators’ relief.

Lafayette shot them a self-righteous look, which was quickly replaced with a mildly delirious one as the doctor gave him a small dose of laudanum. The Frenchman’s eyelids flickered briefly, and then he fell back against the bed as his muscles slackened.

After the Marquis was rendered suitably dead to the world, the doctor went about performing the slightly more painful aspects of cleaning the wound. Alcohol was applied to sterilize the gash, and, even though his eyes were locked on his French friend, Laurens could when Alexander inhaled sharply as the soaked cloth was pressed to the cut. Even out cold, Lafayette flinched.

Stitches were sewn, clipped, and tied off, the graze rinsed once more with fresh water. The doctor washed his hands, toweled them dry, and addressed the pair loitering by the flap of the tent.

“Your friend should be fine, so long as he gets enough water and rest, assuming the wound does not decide to take on an infection. The cut was shallow, so I very much doubt that will happen, but we will have to keep our wits about us. Soldiers have died from far less.”

There was a pause. Such somber matters were best left unsaid.

“What do you think shall happen?” Alexander asked seriously.

“I believe he shall make a full recovery,” said the man in front of them. “Just make sure he stays hydrated and his bandages are changed often.”

“Yes, sir,” Laurens said, offering a crisp solute.

The doctor smiled.

“Good day to you, sirs, and God bless you.” And without another word, he was gone.

The smell of rot and alcohol hung in the air like a cloud. Laurens stepped forward, laying a hand on the Marquis’s.

“Come back to us,” he said, clasping the hand a little tighter. He then moved back, allowing Alexander to speak his piece.

“Lafayette,” he said, swallowing hard, “if you don’t make it through this, I swear to God that I  _ will _ kill you.”

“Isn’t that--” Laurens started.

“You understand the gist well enough,” Alexander snapped, pulling away from the bed to settle next to Laurens again.

They stood for a moment, looking at their dear friend. Laurens bit the corner of his lip anxiously, and Alexander could tell that nerves were beginning to get to him. He slid his hand into Laurens’s and squeezed reassuringly.

Even with the positive reinforcement, as he looked at his sleeping friend, a small pang of guilt radiated through Laurens’s thoughts, and he could almost feel it in his stomach. He should have noticed the wound earlier, and because he had not, the chances of it becoming infected had gone through the roof. And while he had seen the doctor sterilize the gash himself, and had be told numerous times that the Marquis was going to be fine, he couldn’t help the nagging worry brewing in his gut.

The silence seemed almost oppressive now, and Laurens yearned for a noise. A yawn, a cough, a voice, anything,

And he got his wish.

A man, a young private by the looks of things, poked his head through the flap of the tent.

“Colonel Hamilton?” The man’s voice was quiet, so as to not disturb the recovering troops.

“Yes?” Alexander replied, quickly disentangling himself from Laurens’s side. Laurens tried to hold on to the slim hand that so desperately removed itself from his, but a warning glance from his friend and his own consciousness told him that they were dangerously close to crossing the line of propriety. There would be time for pleasantries later. For the moment … 

They had a revolution to attend to.

“General Washington would like you to give a full report. How soon can you get over to headquarters?”

Alexander’s eyes seemed to betray a momentary stab of regret as he pulled himself even further from Laurens. “Now, if that would be amenable to him.”

“Certainly.” The private saluted, genial expression on his face, and led Alexander out of the tent.

Laurens stood, the ghosts of the presences that had been by his side only a few seconds before disappearing, leftover perceptions of comfort and familiarity dying on the wind.

He felt alone. Felt separated, despite the knowledge that Alexander was only across camp, and that Gilbert was only a few feet away.

Perhaps it had something to do with the knowledge of the demons that plagued his mind, letting him know that he was, in fact, alone. Scorned by the majority of the world.

_ Sinner. Disgusting. Appalling. Hangings. Not good enough. Weak. Privileged. Scum.  _ The whispers and taunts of his childhood flickered into existence, an ethereal orchestra playing for one.

But maybe he wasn’t alone, if the partiality Alexander had confessed to him earlier carried any significance whatsoever.

His heart soared as he recalled the events of the battle, but the grief and regret over the Marquis’s current predicament pulled it down again, emotional ballasts heavy in his mind.

He clenched his eyes tight, tears flowing down his flushed cheeks.

“Please be okay,” Laurens whispered.

He wasn’t sure who he meant. Gilbert? Alexander? Or himself?

Laurens wandered morosely back to his tent, the day’s events weighing heavily on his mind, though perhaps not as heavily as the thick, soupy fog that had settled over camp and rendered the air cool, if rather stifling.

The mid-autumn weather certainly put a damper on his already sullen mood. The chill ate into his bones with the promises of incoming storms, and the wind bit into the exposed skin of his face, which was rapidly flushing in response to the cold.

The walk across camp was much the same as usual. The only differences seemed to be the increase in the general vivaciousness in the atmosphere as soldiers hurried about, tending to the recently wounded and taking stock of the losses.

Laurens picked his way through the chaos, making perfunctory gestures now and then at the passing aides he recognized. The responses were polite, if strained, and -- strangely -- punctuated by the occasional befuddled stare.

He had no idea why his general disposition warranted such responses -- if it did, indeed, warrant them -- but the gloom of the atmosphere infused him with an apathy that made it difficult to care.

The tent was empty when he returned.

Sighing, Laurens pulled his boots off with little ceremony and collapsed onto the rather uncomfortable pallet that served as his intended sleeping area, although it really only served as a dump for excess clothing and supplies. He stared at the coarse cream fabric that comprised the ceiling.

He sighed again.

Goddammit, Alexander.

Laurens wished he could dispel the images taunting his mind. Alexander, eyes wild as he pulled them to the ground. Alexander, sobbing happily as he pulled Laurens into a tight hug. Alexander, as he stared intently into what seemed to be, to Laurens, the fabric of his very soul, before whispering those three fateful words.

_ I love you _ .

Of course he did.

Laurens pressed the heels of hims palms to his eye sockets, attempting to stave off a pounding headache as more and more memories flooded, unbidden, into his brain.

Alexander, writing late into the night, candlelight staining his pale features a golden, if somewhat sickly, hue. Alexander, clutching a mug of some unknown alcohol, cheering Laurens on a job well done. Alexander, pressed to Laurens’s side while he slept, occasionally slinging an errant arm over his still friend, pulling him close.

How had he never noticed?

Laurens felt an imbecile. It had been in front of him all along and yet, somehow, he’d talked himself out of it every time.

He smacked a hand to his forehead.

Stupid.

He so desperately wanted to talk -- to celebrate, even -- with Alexander; about where they were now and how they came to be.

But of course, duty called.

And Alexander would most likely be detained for several more hours, if not the rest of the day.

Which meant Laurens had a whole day to stew. Over … well …  _ everything _ .

And being alone with his own thoughts was the last thing he wanted.

Because … what if he talked himself out of it  _ again _ ? He had been given his chance, and he was bound and determined to take it, but what if he changed his mind? Or, even if he remained steadfast in the sentiments he’d cultivated for his friend, what if  _ Alexander _ backed out? What if he hadn’t meant what he’d said? What if he’d only  _ said _ what he’d said in a moment of adrenaline fueled emotion, but didn't want to admit to his error?

Or … what if he’d only meant the sort of brotherly love exchanged between fellow soldiers, and Laurens had read the situation all wrong?

_ This is ridiculous. _

He paused for a moment, wrangling in the runaway hurricane of his thoughts.

A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips.

God, he needed Lafayette. Maybe he’d know what to say. Maybe he’d know what was going on.

But he didn’t.

And it was his own damn fault.

“Shit,” he whispered, turning onto his side and running nervous fingers through his already ruined hair.

Laurens already had so much on his plate; the war, his negotiating with his own father, his own internal turmoil regarding his personal and military failings and personal inclinations, the delicate balance he’d struck as the newcomer to the family of aides … 

And now this.

Laurens sat up quickly, deciding that, yes, in fact, enough was enough and that he might as well be productive in his off time.

He eyed the ever-increasing pile of unanswered correspondence heaped up on his and Alexander’s shared desk. His stack was significantly larger than his friend’s.

By a quite disheartening amount.

With an unenthused sigh, he pulled up his chair, sharpened one of many quills, popped open a bottle of ink, and got to work.

Little by agonizing little, the teetering stack of miscellaneous paperwork was meticulously sifted through and dealt with in the proper manner. The letters were swiftly scanned, and drafts were hastily scribbled out before being set aside. Translations were handled easily enough, with only a few scrawled notes to his future self to ask Gilbert about some technical terms and phrases that he himself was unfamiliar with.

Before too long, what with the relaxing environment and the comforting tedium to distract him from his tumultuous thoughts, Laurens found himself absorbed into the familiar monotony of his work, the glow of his newly lit candle and the quiet buzz of camp life lulling him into a pleasant reverie.

Until a particular letter caught his eye.

As he passed his thoroughly ink-blackened fingers over the expensive parchment he wished he didn’t recognize, a lump of low-grade terror formed in his throat. He knew that high-quality paper, that impeccable script, the return address practically stamped in his brain, and, most of all, the flowing cursive that comprised a name that inspired both dread and a begrudging respect.

_ Henry Laurens. _

He carefully broke open the envelope and unfolded the letter within. He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until he tried to take one thin sheet of paper off of another and couldn’t separate them.

_ My son, _

_ I’m afraid I must inform you of a terrible tragedy. _

Good? Whatever was a tragedy to his father could occasionally be beneficial to him. Maybe a legislative bill had restricted the rights of slave owners? Maybe someone influential to the abolitionist cause had made some sort of breakthrough?

Or …

_ I trust you will remember the name of Jonathan Baker--  _ The name vaguely tickled the back of Laurens’s memory, but he didn’t quite recognize it until his father clarified.  _ \--your old childhood friend _ .

Ah, yes. Laurens had not had many friends throughout his adolescent years, but Jonathan had been, by far, one of the closest. He had helped him understand his own inner desires when he had first begun actively shoving them back into the inner recesses of his mind.

And, when it had counted most, they had been there for each other. Accepted each other.

Laurens wasn’t quite sure whether or not his heart was still beating.

_ Last week, Mr. Baker was tried and convicted on the charges of theft, assault of a member of the clergy, and attempted sodomy. _

Laurens couldn’t help but let out an involuntary gasp of horror.

_ His hanging, as of the dating of this letter, is set for a week hence. _

With a rapidly growing sense of dismay, he checked the date.

Two weeks ago.

Jonathan had been dead for a week.

Laurens hardly noticed as the letter fluttered to the ground, paper crinkling softly, barely noticeable over the blood rushing through his ears and pounding in his temples.

He did not cry, for the reality of the situation had not yet fully registered. Every nerve in his body shouted in chorus, a single voice screaming that, no, this couldn’t be true.

But it could.

And that was what made it so terrifying.

And so  _ real _ .

Despite the raging denial that flooded his veins, Laurens fumbled clumsily along the floor for the crumpled parchment, numb fingers scrabbling uselessly over the dirt.

There. Under his chair.

He clutched the letter with so much force he was afraid he would tear it as he spread it out on the desk before him.

Although his head was pounding and his pulse threatened to give out at a moment’s notice, Laurens read on, hand trembling as he traced the elegant script.

_ It saddens me to no end that I must relay to you this rather macabre tale, for I know Jonathan was a close acquaintance of yours, but, due to certain obligations a father has to his eldest son, no matter the strength and quality of their familial bond--  _ Tenuous at best  _ \--I feel I ought to do my duty as the head of this family to bring you the latest news of import. And I do hope you’ll allow me to expound on my own thoughts regarding this matter in the closing of this letter, for this subject upsets me greatly. _

_ When have you ever  _ not _ included an unsolicited opinion _ ?  _ And when have my protests ever stopped you? _ Laurens stared incredulously at the words on the page, chuckling without humor.

As he read over the details of the case, Laurens’s heart sank lower and lower.

It was not just a simple misunderstanding. Jonathan  _ had _ been caught. And he  _ had  _ lashed out, attacking several priests and and bystanders at an infamous church in the area.

And he  _ had  _ been hanged.

Laurens paused for a beat, letting the information sink in, before turning to the next leaflet.

And thus, the promised personal notes began.

Notes which spanned a full three pages.

The words barely made an impression on Laurens’s tired and emotionally charged brain, but he did manage to make out some sporadic sentences to the general effect of  _ “Sodomy is a crime, he deserved it, have you written to Martha recently, how is Frances,”  _ and  _ “I am watching you.” _

Laurens held his head in his hands. He hardly knew what was happening, hardly knew what he had just read, if he had read it at all.

There was one thing that stood out above the rest. One thing he genuinely couldn’t fathom.

How did Henry Laurens always know just the right thing to put his son on edge?

Laurens leaned back in his chair, mind and heart equally empty.

And then the flap of the tent flew open, accompanied by a cold blast of air.

Just managing to not fall out of his chair in shock, Laurens turned to the entryway, where a cheery Tench Tilghman stood, toting two plates.

“Evening!” Tilghman said cheerfully, setting a steaming plate of something that Laurens definitely did not want to eat on the small desk before flopping down on Laurens’s supply pallet to tuck in to his own plate of miscellaneous foodstuffs.

“Evening …” Laurens said slowly, hesitantly reaching out for the perilously placed metal disc. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this …” he waved his arms vaguely about the tent, “rather unexpected visit?”

Tilghman smiled up at Laurens through a mouthful of food, holding up a finger as he finished swallowing.

“Well,” he said, stifling a cough, “Ham asked me to come check on you, make sure you were holding up. What with the battle and everything …” he trailed off at Laurens’s gobsmacked expression. “Are you okay?”

“He … asked you to come check on me.” It wasn’t a question. It was an affirmation.

The other southerner nodded.

Laurens couldn’t help but smile at the thought, but thoughts of the letter from his father instantly bogged down his lifted spirits.

He figured it must’ve shown on his face, because Tilghman threw Laurens a suspicious glance.

“Would you prefer it if I left you alone?” he asked, voice light.

Tilghman began to hastily gather his things, speaking all the while.

“I can just tell Ham you’re alright, I’ll be on my way--”

“Tench.” Laurens smiled a little. “You don’t … you don’t have to. I really appreciate everyone’s concern for me. I’m just … a little out of it, I suppose.”

Tilghman’s gaze flicked towards the stack of papers on Laurens’s desk, and frowned. “Did something happen to your father?”

“No. Well, not to my father. An old friend just got himself into a little trouble is all.”

“Ah. A friend from South Carolina?”

Laurens nodded.

“Am I allowed to ask what happened?”

Laurens shook his head. “You needn’t concern yourself with it.”

Tilghman looked slightly crestfallen, but had enough decency not to press. Laurens made a mental note to thank him later.

The room fell into a comfortable quietude, punctuated by the occasional scrape of cutlery against the pewter dishes balanced precariously on their knees. The candle, flickering merrily on the desk, burned low as Tilghman and Laurens made easy conversation through the twilight, even after both were finished with their meals.

It was after Tilghman cracked a particularly bawdy joke about one of the women he’d met at a recent military soirée that all of his pent up guilt from earlier in the evening come crashing back down.

As the laughter in the space died down, Laurens’s eyes began to burn as he held back sudden tears. He turned away so Tilghman wouldn’t see. 

The look of concern he was receiving made it clear that Laurens wasn’t hiding it very well.

All he wanted was for Hamilton to embrace him and tell him that everything would be alright. 

A sudden voice disrupted his train of thought.

“Laurens, do you want me to take our dishes back? Tilghman asked, gingerly retrieving Laurens’s empty plate and stacking it on top of his own.

Laurens nodded, hastily brushing his sleeve over his cheeks to discourage the impending tears from falling.

There was a faint noise of acknowledgement from Tilghman, and then Laurens was alone.

Again.

Sometime during Tilghman’s much appreciated -- if somewhat extended -- stay, the muted hues of twilight had succumbed to the inevitable state of darkness, and the shadows around Laurens had become much more angular, the stark cream of the tent fabric standing out against the blackness of the nightime camp.

And then the brief glimpse of the outside world vanished as the flap fell shut with nary a sound.

The relative silence was stifling, despite the pleasant situation Laurens had just left.

His nerves stung, rubbed raw, his entire body on a knife’s edge.

He thought he might break at any moment.

The tears were streaming down his face and blotting his papers before he even realized he was crying.

Laurens shook in his rickety chair, shoulders trembling as he buried his face in his hands and curled into a ball, pulling his knees to his chest.

Oh, how he wished Alexander was there.

“… John?”

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Why did he have to show up  _ now _ ? When Laurens could barely string words together, let alone contend with the warring emotions concerning the man of the hour.

He didn’t look up, instead choosing to pretend he was absorbed in his work, barely suppressing the urge to dry his face.

Laurens heard Alexander’s tentative footsteps on the packed earth, slowly approaching the desk with the timidity of a mouse to a cat.

The South Carolinian jumped when a hand settled on his shoulder.

“John? Are …. Did something happen?”

Laurens slowly turned his tear-streaked face up to face his friend, not even bothering to compose himself.

Alexander gasped slightly when he saw the expression adorning Laurens’s face, and Laurens gave a halfhearted smile in return.

Alexander did not smile back.

Instead, he cupped Laurens’s chin gently, swiping at the tears with an ink-stained thumb, murmuring softly.

“Jacky … what happened?” the redhead asked, placing his left hand on the blonde’s other cheek.

And Laurens couldn’t take it anymore.

He broke.

Much to the surprise of Alexander, Laurens leapt out of his chair and into the shorter man’s arms, burying his face in the crook of Alexander’s neck, breathing in his comforting scent.

Alexander, clearly caught off guard by his normally physical-displays-of-affection-averse friend tackling him with a shuddering embrace, hesitantly held out his arms before running his hands up the length of Laurens’s back.

The sensation of Alexander’s nimble fingers through the thin fabric of his shirt, the warmth of his hands, sent chills down his spine, and Laurens gave a hiccuping laugh, pulling away to just take in Alexander’s face. The intense, yet subdued azure of his eyes, sparkling in the golden glow of the fast-dying candle; the dusting of freckles that reminded Laurens of a spray of copper paint across a living canvas; the highly distinctive cheekbones, cutting and sharp, casting shadows down Alexander’s face; and his mouth, usually stuck in a wry smirk, but currently settled in a mildly concerned line.

Laurens smiled wetly, and Alexander mimicked the expression, slowly guiding the taller man to their shared sleeping space.

“Hey. It’s okay.” God, Laurens needed to hear that. Needed to have Alexander near him. Needed to know everything would be alright.

But instead of pointing this out, Laurens simply grinned, reaching for a handkerchief tucked into the pocket of his coat, slung over the chair he had just vacated. After a few seconds, with a freshly cleansed face, he embraced Alexander again.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and when Alexander squeezed him just a little tighter, he felt safe.

He felt home.

Which was more than Mepkin could ever claim.

Enveloped in Alexander’s arms, thoughts of the estate -- and particular occupants -- seemed far away, outside of the calmness brought on by Alexander’s mere presence.

But … they were still there, and nothing Alexander did or said could change the harsh reality of the incriminating piece of paper that Laurens so desperately wished to forget.

Alexander must’ve picked up on Laurens’s misgivings, because when he pulled away, the look of brotherly concern was back.

“Jacky,” Alexander said, eyes bright. “What do you need.”

Laurens smiled through a fresh downpour of tears, unable to form comprehensible sentences, and Alexander seemed to understand, and didn’t budge when Laurens collapsed into his side.

Alexander gently pulled Laurens into him as he leaned back onto the bed, and Laurens was all too happy to oblige.

He curled into Alexander’s bony form, sighing happily as the redhead’s chin nestled into the crook of his neck. The breath ghosting across his ear was pleasant, and his heart rate began to slow.

“Do you need to talk about it?” Alexander asked quietly, tracing a finger over Laurens’s knuckles.

Ah. That. As much as Laurens just wanted to forget about everything and just breathe in the presence of Alexander, keeping it all in could only lead to sorrow.

With a heavy sigh, Laurens levered himself into a proper sitting position, Alexander quick to follow.

“Well,” Laurens said carefully, pulling his knees up to his chest, “there  _ are _ a few things on my mind.”

“Clearly,” Alexander said, grinning crookedly, and Laurens could barely suppress a snort. That was what was so amazing about … whatever it was they had. Despite Alexander’s pension for being unable to shut his mouth for more than two seconds and Laurens’s affinity for silence, if their situation called for it, the former would be willing to lend an ear, and the latter wouldn’t be opposed to opening up.

Before long, Laurens was going on and on about his worries about home and Martha and Frances and Jonathan, rambling aimlessly, and occasionally frantically spiraling into a jumble of words that barely made any sense, even to him. Alexander nodded along with an understanding look, and Laurens could not be more grateful for the shorter man’s existence.

“--and it seems like my father is perpetually breathing down my neck when I’m at my worst, and all the things I left behind in London are coming to the surface and I-- and you-- and you  _ and  _ me … I don’t-- I need-- I just-- don’t know. What happened today. What … what do we do now?”

When it was all over, and Laurens had run out of all the words he could possibly think to say, as well as the ones to keep to himself, Alexander remained silent.

Laurens found Alexander’s lack of discerning remarks rather unsettling. It was a rare occasion indeed when he had nothing of note to say.

“… Alexander?”

No response from the unusually taciturn man by Laurens’s side, just a look of resolute determination.

“… Alexander, what are you-- hmph!”

Any and all thoughts of London, of his father, any compunctions he possessed regarding whatever it was they may or may not have had, whatever they might become, whatever consequences might come of their actions, any coherent thoughts at  _ all _ , fled from Laurens’s mind as quickly as they could because, between one fleeting moment and the next, sooner than Laurens even had any time at all to process, to  _ react _ , Alexander was kissing him.

Laurens stiffened and nearly pulled away, but something told him to stay before he botched his chances again. And before he knew it, he was kissing Alexander back.

A rush of emotions -- fear, paranoia, hope, melancholy, anxiety, trust,  _ love _ \-- flooded Laurens’s system, both muffling and amplifying every sensation he was experiencing.

He  _ loved _ it.

And then Alexander’s arms were around him, pulling him closer, tangling in his hair, thoroughly destroying the last remnants of dignity he hoped to maintain, then the barrier collapsed and they were grasping at everything they could, trying to expose themselves fully, to get as close as they could, and even that wasn’t enough.

And then one of them smiled, and they pulled apart, and it was over, and they were grinning, laughing, shrieking for joy because everything had turned out alright.

Everything was alright.

For awhile they simply lay on the small bed, enjoying each other’s presence, the feeling of breathing in somebody else’s breath, the ghostly reminders of hands on spines, the pleasant warmth of Alexander pressed into Laurens’s front, hand cupped around Laurens’s cheek.

Laurens sighed happily, because his father and Mepkin and London felt so far away.

He felt giddy.

He felt  _ invincible _ .

And then the room was plunged into darkness, the candle choosing that moment to at last flicker out.

In the black, all Laurens could hear was the sound of Alexander’s breathing, and all he could feel was the soft touch of Alexander’s fingertips in his hair.

Laurens sighed happily, shifting closer to Alexander until their foreheads touched.

He couldn’t see, but Laurens was certain Alexander was smiling.

But then a thought struck him, something he’d hoped to forget. And he had, for a little while. It seemed that, while Alexander held him, kissed him, he could forget about anything.

But now …

“Alexander …?” Laurens whispered into the dark

“ … Yeah?” came the eventual response, soft breath filling the slight space between them.

“I … is this safe?”

Alexander shifted on the bed, removing his hand and turning onto his back. “What do you mean?”

“Well … should we really be doing this? I mean …” Laurens hesitated, wary of broaching an uncomfortable subject. “What if someone finds us? What if something happens? Because … well … we’re in a  _ war _ . People die. And … what if my father finds out? I … don’t know if I could lose you.”

There was rather substantial pause, during which Laurens’s thoughts moiled and clashed like tidal waves.

He eventually began to wonder if Alexander had fallen asleep, but then the other man spoke, quietly at first, but slowly gaining volume.

“Jacky … you can’t allow yourself to think these things. If one lives in constant fear of what-ifs, nothing will ever come of it. And where’s the Jack I know? The one who charges headlong into battle without thinking? The one who never spares a moment when in pursuit of something he cares about? Why should this be any different?”

Laurens stared at the fuzzy outline of Alexander’s face, trying to come up with a response, but Alexander was still going.

“And yes, I will admit, those are all valid fears. I will not simply brush them aside, for these are the things we must consider. However--” he turned back to Laurens, placing his hand on Laurens’s cheek, “--we only have one life to lose. Why should we waste it longing for what we could’ve done differently?”

“But what if--”

“This is what I mean,” Alexander chuckled. “You mustn’t let yourself be consumed by false insecurities and a thousand iterations of what could be or what could have been. That path leads only to devastation.”

“But--”

“Trust me, Jack.” A beat. “That’s all I ask.”

Laurens nodded once, barely, but Alexander seemed to understand and he shuffled closer, so that their noses were touching.

“Your father is not here. He cannot touch you, except through words on paper and the images you choose to keep in your own mind. He cannot hurt you, and he won’t. As long as I’m still breathing, I will be here.”

Alexander reached out, taking Laurens’s trembling hand in his own.

“And we can’t live in fear of our own mortality. Everyone dies sooner or later, and that is a fact of the universe. Everyone. Will. Die. And there’s nothing we can do to change that. Believe me, I’ve known this since I was fourteen”

Alexander brought Laurens’s hand up to his own face, and Laurens ran his fingers over the delicate features he was certain were permanently etched into the fiber of his being.

“I’m here, Jacky,” Alexander said. “Even when you can’t see me, I’m with you. Remember that. Remember that we love because life is too short to waste on regret and abandoned memories. Because living in fear of death is simply surviving. That it is no way to live, to love. Remember that, no matter what may become of us, I am always here, and I love you.”

And then he kissed Laurens, just once, just lightly, barely there at all, and then he was silent, and all around them were hardships -- the revolution, the law, family, existence itself -- but at the same time, all around them were stars, and Laurens swore he saw the stars in Alexander’s eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered. 

And he wasn’t denying it anymore. He knew and had always known and would know forever and that was enough.

The next morning came too swiftly for Laurens’s liking.

But come it did, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The tent was filled with diffuse cold light.

That meant he’d overslept.

Why hadn’t Alexander woken him?

And … where  _ was _ Alexander?

“Oh, Jacky!” came a voice far too cheerful for before lunch. Laurens groggily sat up, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his palm, and was just awake enough the register Alexander -- fully dressed -- come striding into the tent, bounce in his step, and set a gargantuan stack of parchment on the communal desk.

Laurens attempted to form some sort of response, but all that escaped his lips was a jumble of incomprehensible syllables.

Alexander smiled, bounding over to his not entirely conscious friend.

“I have great news!” he exclaimed, vibrating with excitement.

“Mmm … is it food?” Laurens asked sleepily, rapidly fluttering his eyes in an attempt to collect his thoughts.

“Nope!” Alexander said, pulling Laurens in for a quick peck on the lips before returning to the desk to divide the stack into two nearly-equal piles.

“Well … what is it?” Laurens inquired, blushing. But he was soon distracted by trying to escape the bed. The covers seemed to be actively resisting his attempts to kick them off, but now that he was more awake, this was a battle he could win.

He almost missed what Alexander said, as he gave a huzzah when at last the malicious sheets were thoroughly disentangled and removed from his limbs. 

Alexander grinned.

“Washington has blessed us with a day off.”

Laurens bolted upright. Had he heard that correctly?  
He voiced his concern to his friend, who was frenetically scribbling on a sheet of paper.

“Well, not really a day off,” Alexander clarified, swiftly tucking the paper into his coat pocket.

“Oh.” Laurens slumped, disappointed.

“But--” Alexander threw Laurens’s clothes off of the storage pallet, barely missing the taller man’s face, “--Washington will not require us to do our work in the office today.”

Laurens blinked owlishly. “Really?”

“Yes.”

The blonde couldn’t help but smile, hastily pulling on a fresh shirt.

“Excellent.”

Once Laurens looked at least half presentable, he and Alexander gathered up their papers -- of which there were many -- some inkwells, quills, and their portable writing desks, and struck out toward the medical tent.

When they arrived, the doctor on duty informed them that Lafayette had been moved to his own private tent, away from the other troops.

Quick nods were exchanged, along with a helpful gesture in the direction of a small canvas structure, situated about thirty yards from the main medical center.

Upon entering the small space, it was if Laurens and Hamilton had stepped into another world. The bustle of camp activity was muffled, and the only present noise was Lafayette’s gentle breathing.

Without even sparing a glance at their unconscious friend, Alexander set himself down on the ground and began unpacking the contents of his writing desk. It was several moments before he noticed Laurens was still standing uncomfortably, gaze flicking back and forth between Gilbert and Alexander’s precise movements.

_ Sit with me _ , Alexander seemed to say with a simple tilt of the head, and Laurens did as he was bidden, joining his friend on the compacted dirt.

They wrote in silence for a considerable amount of time, the soft scratching of their quills providing a soothing atmosphere for racing thoughts and frayed nerves.

Nothing of note passed for awhile, until Laurens noticed that Alexander had been slowly inching his way across the floor, and his arm was bumping into Laurens’s side as he wrote, his foot intermittently tapping against Laurens’s thigh.

Laurens paid Alexander’s ministrations no mind. Well, he tried not to. As much as he wanted to simply overlook the steady progress Alexander was making in encroaching -- not unpleasantly -- on his personal space, the gentle touches and prolonged contact were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

“Hey, what are you  _ doing _ ?” Laurens hissed when Alexander reached over and began to absentmindedly trace little patterns on Laurens’s back.

“Hm?” Alexander seemed to not have heard Laurens’s question, as he continued trailing his fingers over Laurens’s spine, pressing into his side..

“Alexander, what--”

“What?” he replied innocently, twining small pieces of Laurens’s hair in his fingers.

“What are you--”

And then Alexander’s lips were on his and Laurens suddenly didn’t care about what he may or may not have been doing up until that point.

Laurens jumped at the moment of first contact, but soon melted into Alexander’s warmth, drawing the smaller man into a tight embrace. Unlike the previous night, where the sudden surge of passion had left them sweaty and breathless, the fervent energy crackling in the air around them as they kissed, they were slow and careful, and there was none of the hurry.

Alexander shifted onto his knees, letting his desk slide to the dirt, although he was careful to make sure the inkwell didn’t spill. Laurens smiled inwardly.

Ever the perfectionist.

Alexander was awkwardly straddling Laurens’s knees, having ditched the writing desk, and Laurens couldn’t bring himself to care about the stack of correspondence still precariously balanced on his own lap.

It seemed that Alexander was perfectly content to ignore it as well, as he glanced at it once before leaning in and deepening the kiss.

Laurens hummed happily, and Alexander laughed without making a sound; Laurens could feel him shaking before he tugged softly on Laurens’s queue.

Laurens moaned, clutching at Alexander’s shoulders and tugging at the fabric. And then before he knew it, the desk had fallen off his makeshift platform and he was squaring up to face Alexander better, and Alexander had a knee between his legs and he pushed and--

“Stop.” The word was out of Laurens’s mouth before he was even aware he’d spoken.

Alexander paused, leaning away, blue eyes wide with concern.

“What’s wrong, did I-- Do you-- Oh, God, is this--” Alexander began to panic, wringing his hands. “Are you-- Is this not what you want? I was so sure--”

“You’re fine, Alexander,” Laurens said quietly. “But not here. Not now.”

Alexander sighed, clambering out of Laurens’s lap and gathering his scattered papers and quills.

“Yeah.”

A horrendously awkward silence settled between the two as they pulled themselves together to start working again. Laurens began to worry he’d done something wrong, that maybe Alexander was disappointed in him, but when the redhead reached out to squeeze his hand reassuringly, Laurens breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

But there was one thing he needed to say.

“Alexander, I--”

“Shh.” Alexander held a finger up to Laurens’s mouth -- which seemed a little over the top, if he was honest -- eyes narrowed.

“What--”

With a sharp jerk of the head, Laurens saw what Alexander had been looking at.

At some point during the time while they were rather preoccupied with matters other than work, Lafayette had regained consciousness.

His face was slack -- clearly, some sedative lingered in his system -- but the horror-stricken gaze that he pointed in their general direction was a definite sign he’d seen everything.

Alexander gingerly removed himself from Laurens, holding up the hand with the quill in it.

“H-Hi.”

Lafayette continued to stare, more than a little red in the face.

Laurens opened his mouth to say something, but soon discovered that the pathway between his brain and his voice seemed to have disconnected, so he settled on blushing profusely and avoiding eye contact.

“I … can explain?” Alexander said, fruitlessly attempting to salvage the situation.

Laurens sighed.

“There’s no point, Alexander. He’s seen it all.”

“That I have,” the Marquis said with a sleepy smile, words slurring as though he were drunk.

Alexander looked at him, tilting his chin down as if coaxing Lafayette to add more to his brief summarization of the matter. There was so much implied in that one statement, Laurens didn’t know how to feel.

Did Gilbert approve? Or was he going to turn them in?

_ No, he wouldn’t do that _ , Laurens thought.

But what if he did? Or maybe he didn’t care one way or another. Hell, maybe he wouldn’t even remember once the drugs wore off.

But what if he  _ did _ remember?

“Jacky,” Alexander said under his breath, clutching Laurens’s hand to keep him focused. He had probably picked up on Laurens’s rapidly increasing heart rate. “We will be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Laurens asked, voice climbing higher and verging closer to hysterical.

“Yes, Jacky,” Alexander murmured. “I am.”

Laurens nodded, throat closing up from attempting to fight off agitated screeching.

There was a beat of silence, and then Alexander stood, pacing softly over to Lafayette’s bedside.

“Gilbert?”

“Yes?” Lafayette blinked lazily, languidly tipping his head up to look Alexander in the eye.

“Are you going to … you know …”

“Tell anyone?” The Marquis’s speech was garbled and slow, but it was clear he understood what was happening.

“Yes,” Alexander said after a brief pause.

Lafayette smiled.

“Why would I?” And then his eyelids fluttered shut and he was asleep once more.

Once they were sure Lafayette was well and truly out, Alexander crumpled, breathing out a heavy sigh, and then he ran to Laurens, wrapping him in a crushing embrace, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry!” he whispered frantically, talking into Laurens’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t have-- That was so  _ stupid _ \-- I’m a fucking  _ idiot _ ! What was I  _ thinking _ !? I mean, what if he remembered? What if we’d been caught? What if--”

“Alex!” Laurens said harshly, pushing the blubbering man to a standing position, clutching his shoulders to keep him from collapsing again. “You couldn’t have known!”

“But I should’ve--”

“You  _ couldn’t _ .  _ Have _ .  _ Known _ .”

“But--”

“What did you say to me, huh?” Laurens let go, stepping closer. “That living with the “what-ifs” was a sure path to destruction. And the Alexander I know is many things, but he is  _ not _ a hypocrite. Now shut up and be grateful Lafayette is a good man, okay?” And then, without a second thought, Laurens tipped up Alexander’s chin and kissed him as though his life depended on it.

And then, as an afterthought, “You asked me to trust you.”

Alexander pulled back, bewildered but nodding.

Laurens rested his forehead against Alexander’s, smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“All I ask is that you trust me in return.”

Alexander grinned, wrapping his arms around Laurens once more.

“My dear, I shall trust you until I am no longer a part of this mortal plane. You know I shall.”

Laurens beamed, pulling Alexander in for one last kiss, soft and chaste and lingering.

“My dear, that is why I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This took forever. But it is over now, and I'm pleased.


End file.
